


Then Love Knew it was Called Love

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Get together fic, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: If you asked Richie, he’d tell you he got the short end of the stick.





	Then Love Knew it was Called Love

**Author's Note:**

> decided to whip out a stozier au with established kasbrough and marshlon. not much to say abt this one except: it's a modern au, it's a soulmate au, and it's au in the sense that stan is the only one who didn't grow up with the rest of them.

If you asked Richie, he’d tell you he got the short end of the stick.

See, here’s how it works: everyone has different colored eyes. One eye is their natural born eye color, the other is the color of their soulmate’s. Now, Richie thinks this is convoluted enough on its face (there are only so many eye colors, c’mon) but he _really_ got fucked on this one. Couldn’t be that cutesy shit like Eddie and Bill (one blue, one brown). No, that would’ve been too easy on Richie Tozier.

No, he had _two brown eyes_. Because that’s what his life fucking is, summed up in a shitty little nutshell. The universe hates him—a fact he’s always known but is consistently reminded of by the fact his eyes are virtually identical—and Richie hates the universe. Most people think he doesn’t have a soulmate, and Richie wouldn’t be surprised. It’d be another heaping pile of shit-luck, same as the hand he’s been dealt his whole life.

Richie’s eyes are both brown. Fate is consistently out to get him.

Such are the facts of life.

 

 

“I dunno,” Beverly hums. Her grip is strong on his chin, unrelenting. “One is a little more hazel.” She nods to his right eye. “The other one is darker. Like, almost black.” She nods at his left eye.

Richie finally yanks out of her grasp. “You’re seeing shit, Bev.” He reflexively rubs at his eyes before slipping his glasses back on. “They’re identical.”

Beverly shakes her head. “I really don’t think they are,” she insists. Richie scoffs, and stares at her eyes. One is clear, sparkling blue and the other is deep, velvety brown. Mike is sitting not far behind her, sporting the same mismatched colors. “Richie,” Beverly says. “They’re really not identical.”

Richie scoots away from her and pushes himself up to stand. “I’m going for a smoke.”

Beverly doesn’t try and follow him, and he’s thankful. He slips out the front door to the porch and lights up. He inhales slowly, and exhales as he sits down on the steps.

It’s bad enough he can barely stand looking in the mirror, he doesn’t need his friends inspecting him all the time.

It’s not like he’s the only one in their group who hasn’t found their soulmate. Ben is still searching; his left eye is a hazel-brown and the other is forest green. Richie’s kind of jealous, honestly; Ben’s eyes match, a lot less jarring than people like Bev and Mike, or Bill and Eddie. A lot prettier than Richie’s own.

It’s just that no one cares that much about Ben’s eyes, because it’s pretty clear that he’s got his other half waiting somewhere for him. Even if he did have eyes like Richie, Ben is so romantic and optimistic he probably wouldn’t even be upset with the universe trying to pull a fast one on him. No, no one really cares about Ben’s to-be love life. They all just care about _Richie’s_.

Richie inhales and sucks down the smoke greedily. The end of his cigarette glimmers and he flicks off the excess ash. It burns a little bit, but the pack is the only one he could bum from the market in town, when he really wanted menthols.

Sighing, he stubs out the cigarette on the bottom of his sneaker and tosses the butt aside.

“Everything okay, Richie?” Bill asks from the sidewalk. He’s standing at the fence that separates the sidewalk from Ben’s yard, and has an arm curled around Eddie’s waist.

“Fucking peachy keen, Billy Boy. How about you?” Richie hollers back. He stands and brushes himself off.

Bill and Eddie walk up—and how they manage to navigate when they’re hardly more than a couple inches apart is beyond Richie—with identical looks of concern. Richie groans and rolls his eyes.

“Bev played another game of ‘let’s try and convince Richie his eyes aren’t a cruel joke played by the universe,’ and I got sick of it. Okay?”

Bill frowns. “Your eyes…?”

“Leave it, Bill.” Richie’s fingers twitch at his side and he’s already itching for another cigarette. “Let’s just go inside.” Richie steps toward the front door but it opens before he can get his hands on the doorknob. Ben stands on the other side, a beer in one hand.

“That’s where you disappeared to.” Ben remarks. “Bev was getting worried you ditched.”

Richie groans again and shoves past him. “Just for that, I’m taking the whiskey.”

“You don’t even like whiskey!” Eddie shouts after him.

“Don’t give a fuck!” Richie hollers back as he makes a beeline for the kitchen. Ben doesn’t protest, and Richie feels a spark of gratitude. He whips open the Hanscom’s liquor cabinet, tucked into a corner of the kitchen, and looks over the selection.

There’s a lot of vodka, and a lot of gin, and a lot of white rum: all of which Richie enjoys. But his gaze eventually lands on the hefty bottle of corked whiskey sitting three shelves above his head.

He braces one hand on the cabinet and reaches up with the other. He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle and tugs it down carefully, slowly. Breathing just a little heavy, he holds the bottle close to his chest.

Richie looks up from his endeavor to see Bill staring at him, arms crossed and lips in a pout.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bill.” Richie says with a scowl. He yanks a cup from the cabinet, too, and struggles to uncork the whiskey. He doesn’t need a corkscrew, it’s already a little loose, it’s just stuck enough that he grunts as he gives it a pull.

He looks up again, and Bill is closer with his hand out. Richie passes over the bottle, scowling even worse, but can’t help a grin when Bill manages to get the whiskey open with a satisfying _pop_.

Richie busies himself with pouring a glass and covering up his surprise when Bill asks for one too.

“So, what brings you ‘round these parts?” Richie asks as they both stand awkwardly in the kitchen, tumblers of whiskey in their hands. It’s strong, so much so just the scent makes Richie want to gag a little. Bill sips at it and winces only a little bit, which means Richie is probably going to want to die the moment he tries it.

“You remember my friend, S-S-Stan?”

Richie nods and finally braves bringing his glass to his lips. He takes the smallest sip he can manage, barely getting his lips wet, and shudders at the taste. “Yeah,” he says around the shiver. “Internet bird boy, right?”

Bill’s lips purse but he’s almost smiling. “Right, him.” Bill takes another, larger sip and instead of shuddering, he sighs pleasantly. Even smacks his lips together. “He’s coming to Derry.”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “You gonna birdwatch together?”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Maybe,” he replies. “I think you two would get along.”

Richie scoffs into the whiskey, nearly getting some up his nose. “Sure, Bill, totally,” he replies, painfully sarcastic.

Bill, entirely used to Richie’s sarcasm and stubbornness, just smirks. “Just prom-m-mise me you’ll hang out with him.” Bill knocks back the rest of his whiskey in one go, and not for the first time Richie wishes Bill was his soulmate. Powerful, attractive, sure of himself—all things Richie aims to be, when he can.

“I promise,” Richie says, genuine.

Bill smiles at him. He reaches out and takes Richie’s glass from his hand, knocks back that whiskey too. “Make yours-self a cocktail, Richie.” He takes both their cups back to the sink, rinses them, dries them, and puts them away. He reaches for a martini glass instead and shakes it at Richie.

Scowling, Richie reaches for a highball glass instead. “Hate you,” he murmurs, affectionately. “When is Bird Boy gonna be here?” He asks as he grabs the shaker from the cabinet too, then tucks a bottle of top-shelf vodka under his arm. He carries it all over to the counter and digs around the freezer for some ice.

“Next weekend,” Bill replies. “He’s s-s-staying in Derry for the su-summer.”

Richie snorts. “Who’d wanna stay in Derry for the summer?” He shakes his head as he shakes his drink (ice, vodka, orange juice he grabbed from the fridge).

Bill rolls his eyes again. “I think you’ll like him.”

Richie shrugs as he pours his drink into the highball glass. “Alright, Billy Boy. Whatever you say.”

 

 

Bill looks up when two solid knocks echo from the front door. “Hey Rich-chie? Can you get that?”

Richie glares at Bill, who gestures to Eddie sprawled across his lap. Sighing, Richie hauls himself to a standing position and shuffles toward the door. “I hate you, Denbrough!” He shouts over his shoulder as he comes upon the front door.

He opens it without checking through the peephole. He opens his mouth too, unsure of what he’s going to say but knows it’s going to be obnoxious—until the sight in front of him sucks the air out of his lungs. Standing on the Denbrough front porch is a tall and lanky young man, with curly light brown hair and a disc-shaped hat sitting on his head. He’s pale, and his shirt should look dorky tucked into his slacks but it just _suits_ him.

“What the actual fuck,” Richie says softly. The guy’s eyes snap to his and Richie can see them even clearer: both brown, not quite the same shade. “What the _fuck_ , William Denbrough get your bony ass in here right now.”

“Or you could let me in,” the guy says smoothly, already stepping forward. Richie steps back until the guy comes inside, and the door shuts behind him. Bill appears at Richie’s side with the widest grin Richie’s ever seen him sport.

“You fucking asshole.” Richie clears his throat around a crack in his tone.

The guy smirks. “You must be Richie.”

“Yep, guilty as charged.” It’s weak, not his best opener, but the guy doesn’t seem to care.

“It’s good to s-see you, Stan.” Bill says as he steps forward and they do an easy, one-armed hug. “Richie, I told you about St-Stan.”

Richie nods, dumbfounded. “You neglected to mention a very crucial piece, Billy Boy.”

Stan’s eyes narrow. “And that is?”

Richie falters. “Uh. You’re hot? Bill didn’t mention that.”

Stan’s lips twitch at the corners. He hums thoughtfully, then turns and heads toward the living room; how he knows which way to go is beyond Richie. Richie tries to catch Bill’s eye as they trail along after him, but Bill is resolutely ignoring him.

Eddie is awake, albeit barely, and smiles at Stan. “S’good to meet you,” he mumbles, words sleep-heavy.

Stan smiles down at him, and it’s such a soft expression Richie suddenly can’t breathe. He looks at Bill, trying to convey _are you seeing this shit_ with his eyebrows alone, but Bill still won’t look at him. Stan leans down closer to Eddie’s level on the couch, and doesn’t extend a hand like most people would.

“Bill mentioned you’re a little careful about germs.” Stan says plainly. Eddie beams back at him, still groggy but sweet. “It’s good to meet you too, Eddie.” Stan stands back up and turns to look at Bill. “Is there somewhere I can put my stuff?”

Bill nods and gestures to the stairs. “S-s-second door on the right.”

Stan heaves his bag over his shoulder and takes the stairs two at a time. Bill finally looks at Richie once Stan is out of sight, and he’s still grinning like a fucking lunatic.

“I’m going to kill you,” Riche says sincerely.

Eddie shushes him. “I told him he should’ve told you.” He sits up fully and rubs his eyes. “He wanted it to be a surprise.” Eddie shrugs, as though he doesn’t entirely understand Bill’s logic. Richie is gratified, because he feels the same way.

“Did—Did you tell Stan?” He hisses.

A fleeting look of shame and guilt flashes across Bill’s expression. “It just s-sort of happened. When we first started talking, he as-s-sked for a picture and I asked for one too. I s-s-s-saw his eyes and…” Bill scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He looks away from Richie to Eddie, who is just as unimpressed, so he looks away from Eddie too.

“Not cool, Bill,” Eddie says, sounding as though he’s said it several times already. “You’re not… actually mad, right Richie?”

Richie pauses in his racing thoughts. He looks between his two best friends, and sighs. Combing a hand through his tangled curls, he bites his lip. “I mean…” He trails off, and is saved from really answering by Stan coming back downstairs. Not that it’s really saving him, since he immediately starts to gape at Stan like he doesn’t know how to shut his mouth.

Stan smirks at him but doesn’t remark on his gobsmacked expression. “I’m starved,” he says to the room but mostly directed at Bill.

“We could order pizza.” Eddie chimes in, a glint in his eye that makes Richie laugh. Stan’s smirk grows and he raises an eyebrow, this time all his focus on Richie.

“Eddie’s mom is a nutcase and won’t let him eat pizza at home. He goes a little overboard whenever he gets the chance.” Richie explains.

“Beep beep,” Eddie retorts without any heat. He stands off the couch and stretches, and once he’s shaken off the last remnants of sleep he looks wide awake. “So, pizza?”

Bill laughs and nods. “Yeah, okay. Richie, you wanna go grab it?”

Richie stares. “Why don’t we just… have it… delivered…?” He asks slowly, like it’s obvious, even as three pairs of eyes stare at him blankly.

Bill glares at him. Even Eddie joins in as he wraps around Bill in a hug.

Stan looks between the three of them. He doesn’t speak, but his stoic face speaks volumes.

“Fine, fuck you.” Richie groans. He turns on his heel and grabs his messenger bag from where it sits in the hall. “C’mon, Bird Boy, let me introduce you to Clarice.”

Stan beats him to the front door somehow, and shakes his head. “Bill told me all about your driving.” He holds up his own keys and nods to the sensible Ford sitting at the curb. “I’m driving.”

Richie squawks indignantly. “You don’t even know where the pizza place is!”

Stan shrugs, already heading to his car. “You better be good at giving directions, then.” He slides gracefully into the driver’s seat. “You coming or not?” He hollers over the rumble of the engine starting up.

Richie casts one last disdainful glance back at Bill and Eddie—who stand together at the door, looking all the world like a couple seeing their kid off to his first day of school. Or something equally ridiculous. He hurries across the lawn when Stan honks the horn. He clambers into the passenger’s seat and while he’s half expecting Stan to take off before he’s buckled, that doesn’t happen.

Stan watches him closely as Richie buckles in, and only pulls away from the curb once the seatbelt clicks into place. Richie pulls his phone from his pocket and dicks around while Stan drives them to the center of town, and only as he’s passing Metcalf Street does Richie start giving actual directions.

“Turn left,” he says, and Stan does so smoothly. “Then a right at Second.”

Stan nods. “So, Bill didn’t tell you?” He asks as he takes the turn.

“Left on MLK,” Richie says, skating by Stan’s question.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Stan answers for him, smirking.

“It’s on the right.” Richie sits back in the seat just as a text comes through from Bill.

_Called in the order, should be ready in 15_

Richie scowls at the message and types back _fuck you!! <3_

“We should talk about this,” Stan says as he pulls into a parking spot outside the pizza place. He hits the lock button on the doors right as Richie goes for the handle. “Richie.”

The use of his name startles him bad enough that Richie freezes. “We really don’t need to talk about this.” Richie doesn’t look at Stan even though he can feel the piercing gaze burning holes in his skin. “I mean. I’ve always thought my eyes were the same color. So, you know. Just because you have two brown eyes doesn’t mean they match mine, right? Besides, I’m—I’m not…” Richie struggles to find a balance between self-deprecating and genuine.

A hand on his arm startles him again, and Richie hits his head briefly against the window. “Richie,” Stan says again, softer this time. “Bill has told me about you, you know. Aside the soulmates thing.”

Richie shakes his head and tries half-heartedly to shake off Stan’s hand. “No, man, you don’t get it. I’m. _You_ deserve better, okay? Bill has told me about you too, and if you think you should be stuck with _me_.”

Stan is suddenly very close and his warm breathing skirts over Richie’s cheek. “Just listen to me, Richie.”

Richie stiffens, and when he realizes Stan is waiting for an answer he nods.

“I don’t really know you, yet. I’m not asking you to move in with me or marry me.” Stan taps at Richie’s jaw, and without thinking Richie turns to look at him. “Just give this a chance, okay? I thought you weren’t one to back down from a challenge.”

“I’m n-not.” Richie stammers out. Facing him now, Richie realizes just how close Stan is. They’re sharing the same air, and it wouldn’t take more than a quick tilt of their heads for them to kiss.

Stan grins—not a smirk, not a sneer—just grins. His face looks softer, lighter for it. He nods slightly. “Good.” Stan’s gaze drops deliberately to Richie’s lips before snapping back up to his mismatched eyes. Richie swallows and tries to will away the blush burning like a forest fire over his cheeks. “I’d like to kiss you now, Richie.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Richie mutters, already tilting his head eagerly. Stan huffs a brief laugh against his lips before sealing their mouths together. The kiss is warm and simple, sweet and a little plain. But Richie revels in it. There’s no spark or fireworks or anything absurd like the movies try and show.

No, nothing like that; something in Richie’s chest calms for the first time in all his eighteen years. The storm isn’t gone, it still feels like his mind is moving at one hundred miles an hour and there’s a tornado in his chest but—

But his thoughts are clearer. Just as fast but easier to sparse through, easier to let go of the ones he doesn’t need. And the tornado in his chest feels more contained, like someone caught the stormy weather in a jar, so careful and kind in their movements.

Without thinking, Richie moans quietly into the still close-lipped kiss. Against his chapped lips, Stan’s mouth forms a teasing smirk.

“We should get the pizza,” Stan says as he sits back. Richie chases him for a moment, and stops with one hand balanced on the center console. He only really stops because Stan is grinning at him with one eyebrow arched. “Eddie will kill us if we don’t.”

Despite the protests that started to bubble in his mouth, Richie reigns in the words. “You’re right.” He says with a sigh. “Fine, fuck, okay. The shit I do for my friends.” Richie reaches for the handle but waits, with a pointed look at Stan, until the locks click again.

Stan gets out first and waits by the front bumper of the car for Richie to get out. He stumbles over to Stan—he didn’t realize his legs started shaking, but it’s making it incredibly difficult to walk like a normal person and not a baby deer—with a sheepish grin. Stan catches him by the elbow as he gets closer and uses the grip to pull him closer.

Richie opens his mouth, but Stan catches his open lips in a kiss instead. Unlike the one a few moments prior, this kiss is deep and filthy and wet. Stan is unrelenting as he memorizes every inch of Richie’s mouth. He sucks on Richie’s tongue briefly and when he pulls away he tugs on Richie’s bottom lip as a parting gift.

“Fuck.” Richie’s tone is dazed, and he’s man enough to admit he feels a little faint. Stan grins at him and turns on his heel. Without sparing a glance at Richie, he walks into the pizza joint looking pleased as punch.

Richie looks down and isn’t surprised to see he’s mostly hard in his jeans; he can only imagine what his face looks like and decides it’s better if he doesn’t go in. He’s probably flushed from hairline to the collar of his shirt, and even though Stan didn’t touch him, he’s sure his hair is a worse mess than usual.

Stan comes out a few minutes later with his arms full of two boxes of pizza, still grinning. In a fog, Richie walks back to the passenger side. He sits down and lets Stan put the pizza boxes in his lap, and lets Stan steal another quick kiss before shutting the door. Richie alternates between staring intensely and looking down at his lap as Stan walks around the car to the driver’s side.

The drive back to Bill’s is quiet, not even the radio is on. But where it would normally drive Richie nuts, it’s just… nice. It’s stupid, maybe, that he feels so at ease when he was so determined to not let this happen less than an hour ago. It feels right, though. Richie can’t bring himself to feel stupid over it, not when Stan reaches across the car and links their fingers.

Maybe, he thinks, the universe doesn’t hate him quite so much after all.


End file.
